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“So, not pregnant?”
“Ha ha,” he says dryly. “Jesus.” He collapses onto the edge of the bed and holds my hand. “Are you ready to do this?” he asks.
“No.”
“Me neither.” His lip quirks. “But you know what, my love?” Dipping carefully, he kisses my lips gently. “I thought I’d lost you. Turns out I’ve gained even more.” His lip quivers, and with it, mine does too.
“Will you still be The American?” I whisper, truly knowing the answer to that.
“Always,” he says, sniffing. “But before everything, I am yours.” He lays a light palm on my stomach. “Both of yours.”
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
“Oh my God,” he whispers back, smiling.
“My hero.”
He laughs lightly. “You’re going to be so fucking fed up with me by the time this baby arrives.”
“Can’t wait.” I really can’t. Spending every moment of my life with Brad? Sign me up. I’d really thought I’d lost him as my uncle sped away from the beach. And then the explosion. I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was in those moments. But Brad didn’t give up. He didn’t abandon me. Leave me.
And now . . .
Now I get forever.
I exhale, settle, and just watch him as he relaxes, and it’s the first time I’ve truly seen him do that. Relax. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my mother’s necklace. “Doctor,” he says over his shoulder as he fiddles with the clasp, “what’s your thoughts on taking Pearl away to recuperate?”
“Sun, sea, and relaxation?” he says. “Sounds like a winning combination to me.” He peeks up from his notes. “As long as you take a professional medical team.”
“Team? Not one professional medic?”
“I recommend two.”
Brad smiles, kissing away my frown. “Let’s put this back where it belongs,” he says, gently feeding it around my neck and fastening it.
And weird as it is, as broken as I am, with Brad here, his baby—my God, I’m pregnant—growing in my tummy, and my mother’s necklace around my neck, I know this is my destiny.
The necklace was always supposed to be mine.
As was The American.
Epilogue - Part ONE
St Lucia – Some Months Later
* * *
BRAD
* * *
There’s sand between my toes, the sun on my back, and I’m surrounded by the smell of the sea. It feels good. And for once, there’s no lingering sense of foreboding. Nothing on the peripheral of our peace threatening to infiltrate it.
Except, of course . . .
I smile, looking back at our villa when I hear the distant cries of—fuck me—my daughter. Ruby Beatrice Black. Named after Pearl’s mom and mine. Born by caesarean section eight weeks ago today. It was a long, grueling pregnancy, Pearl spending most of it on strict bedrest. The site of her wound didn’t have enough time to heal before Ruby grew and applied pressure to the healing area, causing pain and a risk of rupture. Pearl’s been under the close eye of all of us. The docs left her as long as they deemed safe within reason before having her admitted and delivering Ruby. It was an opportunity to check the bullet wound was okay. It wasn’t. They had to perform further surgery to repair the area before they sewed her up. There’s only one other time in my life I’ve felt so helpless. When Pearl was shot.
But now Ruby is here, and I’m praying Pearl can get back to normal soon. She’s on her feet. Slow but on her feet. The lingering guilt still sits heavy. I saved her from being a prisoner, and she’s been a prisoner to her injuries since. But worshipped rather than mistreated. I will always worship her. Express my love and appreciation for her every day for the rest of my life.
